


Comfort Food

by sapphire_child



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, Coda, Episode: s14e03 The Scar, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s14e03 The Scar, Season/Series 14, Season/Series 14 Spoilers, Soup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-13 23:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16482005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphire_child/pseuds/sapphire_child
Summary: His plan is to go straight to his room. Have a shower, hit the hay, wallow for a bit maybe. But despite his exhaustion, Dean is still jazzed up on adrenaline from the hunt. Worse, in his rush to get as much space between them and Sioux Falls as quickly as possible, Dean hasn’t eaten for most of the day. Even driving past the usual food stops on the way home had just made his stomach roil and acid build in the back of his throat.Full to the brim with self loathing and shame, Dean doesn't want to talk to anyone on his return to the bunker. Thankfully in the kitchen there is Castiel, and soup, and quite possibly the first steps towards Dean forgiving himself.





	Comfort Food

It’s six hours from Sioux Falls to Lebanon – give or take a hundred miles if US-81 is busy and they follow the Missouri River down past Omaha and Lincoln instead. By the time they make it home Dean feels like he’s been stretched paper thin, like he’ll buckle under the slightest pressure. There’s no escaping his shame. His guilt. The hollow emptiness of his self-loathing.

Nobody hates Dean Winchester more than Dean Winchester does.

Once the Impala is parked they get out in weary tandem, a ritual borne from years on the road. Sam hesitates before retrieving his duffle, offers a quiet, “Dean…” over the roof of the car. Dean pretends not to hear, slinging his own bag over his shoulder and waving his brother off.

“G’night Sam.”

He feels more than hears the answering sigh. Can almost sense the pitying, sad puppy dog eyes that are following him.

His plan is to go straight to his room. Have a shower, hit the hay, wallow for a bit maybe. But despite his exhaustion, Dean is still jazzed up on adrenaline from the hunt. Worse, in his rush to get as much space between them and Sioux Falls as quickly as possible, Dean hasn’t eaten for most of the day. Even driving past the usual food stops on the way home had just made his stomach roil and acid build in the back of his throat.

Thankfully, detouring via the longer route south means that the bunker is blissfully absent of other people and yeah, Dean might have taken the extra miles on purpose, just so that they were more likely to get back once everyone else has already gone to bed. I mean, he’s adaptable, sure. And the apocalypse world hunters have been in and out of the bunker since they came over here anyway, but he wasn’t expecting them to have taken over quite so completely in the relatively short time he was under Michael’s thumb. He’s already discovered that the kitchen has been overhauled by some cretin who clearly had no idea how to store _anything_ and it’s the relatively soothing thought of methodically reorganising the space (along with a spike of anxiety when he thinks about showering) that ultimately carries his feet to the kitchen, dumping his bags carelessly at the door before poking his head cautiously around the doorway.

He is greeted by the sight of Cas, idly thumbing through a dog-eared copy of Catch-22 at the table. His trench and jacket lie abandoned and his sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms. He looks tired, but the moment he glances up and their eyes meet his whole demeanour shifts. Cas’s gaze moves from calm (if tired) contentment to something softer and warmer. Dean meanwhile shifts from startled to awkward as Cas smoothly closes the book and sets it aside. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t so much as twitch a hand to gesture at him but his eyes invite Dean into the space with him regardless. Despite himself, Dean comes to sit down. Weary, but glad to feel the knot in his chest ease just a little as he gives in to the magnetic pull of Cas’s presence.

“How was the hunt?” Cas asks, interlacing his fingers and resting his elbows on the table.

“Messy.” Dean grunts, compulsively reaching for his face and putting pressure on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t have a headache, but it means he doesn’t have to hold Cas’s gaze as he talks. “Turns out the thing that killed Kaia was actually some ninja-version of her from The Bad Place.”

Cas processes this for a moment and then gives him a ‘go-on’ look that has Dean rolling his eyes and sighing. “Okay look, long story short, turns out Michael wanted her to join his army. She refused, he got mad. She shish-kabobbed him with her spear. Ergo-” he gestures at his shoulder. “This.”

“You say this weapon she had was powerful enough to hurt Michael?” Cas raises his eyebrows. “Did you retrieve it from her?”

Dean finds he can’t quite meet Cas’s gaze as he answers. “Yeah we tried.”

Cas makes an unhappy noise. “She must know that having that weapon makes her an ongoing target for Michael.”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.” Dean sighs, leaning his arms on the table. “She wasn’t gunna just hand over her primary form of protection.”

“So we’re back to square one then.” Cas sits back in his chair, sighing heavily.

“Guess so.”

They sit in contemplative silence for a moment before Dean’s stomach interrupts them so loudly that Cas is startled out of his reverie.

“You haven’t eaten.” He states, rising to his feet immediately. “I made soup for Jack.”

“Cas…” Dean begins but he’s barely begun to protest when Castiel moves to the stove and lifts the lid on one of their biggest stock pots.

“It’s cold.” Cas grumbles, before pressing a hand to the side of it. A moment later the contents of the pot begins steaming and Cas busies himself with ladling a healthy portion into a bowl.

“Did you seriously just mojo that soup to heat it up?” Dean demands as Cas slides it in front of him.

“I seriously did.” Cas deadpans, calmly taking the opposite seat. When Dean hesitates, Cas fixes him with a stern look. “Dean. Stop over thinking it and eat the damned soup.”

“Yes sir.”

It’s a reflexive comment borne from years of conditioning, but Dean still winces anyway and then tries to hide his discomfort by ladling a hefty spoonful of soup into his mouth. It’s hot enough that it burns his throat but it’s tomato-rice and it goes down easier than anything else has since Michael…

Cas is watching him with the sort of intense scrutiny that used to wig Dean out when they first met. Now he just waves the spoon and rasps out, “It’s good man,” before going back for more. “Since when have you been all Susie homemaker? I leave for three weeks and suddenly you’re some gourmet chef?”

He’s joking, at least partially, but Cas seems to take it at face value and just shrugs. “Jack has a cough. I merely remembered the recipe and duplicated it according to your specifications.”

Dean takes another thoughtful spoonful. “My mom used to make this for me when I was sick as a kid.”

“I know.”

“That why you made it for Jack? Comfort food?”

“Well. I had hoped that you might be back early enough to partake in the soup as well.”

“I ain’t sick.”

“No.” Castiel says and his gaze is sharp and keen. “You aren’t. But your body and your mind are _both_ heavily traumatised from Michael’s possession, and your brain is doing its best to repress those memories.”

Dean suddenly feels very exposed. He puts the spoon down with a clatter and stares at the soup.

He finds he’s not feeling all that hungry.

Castiel sighs.

“I’m sorry Dean,” he says and his voice is gentle – far too gentle considering how much of an idiot Dean has been these past few weeks and the terrible mistakes he’s made. “But I don’t see the point in ‘beating around the bush’ when I’ve been inside your head and seen the extent of the damage that has been done.”

On second thought, the soup is maybe a bit too acidic. Sugar would help take the edge off, he thinks dazedly as it rises like bile in the back of Dean’s throat. Or maybe he should just suck it up and deal with it.

“I also know a little about what you’re feeling,” Cas continues, but carefully, as though Dean might lash out at any moment. “Afraid. Guilty. Ashamed.”

“Wow,” Dean rolls his eyes, sliding his bowl to the side in lieu of staring bleakly into it. “Way to sugar coat it man.”

He’s on the verge of standing to leave when Cas presses with, “Am I wrong?” and honestly, now Dean is starting to get angry on top of everything else. He’s had enough of Sam’s pity, he doesn’t need it from Cas as well.

“Look,” he says. “I appreciate the concern about my mental wellbeing but I’m dealing. Okay?”

“I don’t know that you are.” Cas counters but when Dean scoffs and pushes to his feet, Cas’s face hardens into an expression of sheer frustration. “Dean I don’t expect you to be at a hundred percent right now. None of us do. You need to recuperate before you go charging back into the fight.”

“Yeah that’s great and all,” Dean sneers. “Except Michael has some big plan and now he’s cut me loose I have no way of getting intel on it. _I’m_ the reason he’s out there Cas!”

“Maybe.” Cas rises to his feet as well, thunderous in his determination. “But _we_ are the reason he won’t succeed.”

Silence rings between them for a moment.

“We?” Dean says, and he hates how weak his voice sounds. How afraid and uncertain. He looks away. Clears his throat.

“Yes,” Cas says, his face and voice softening. “We.” After a moment he adds, “Dumbass.”

Dean can’t help it. His body shakes with laughter even as he tries his hardest to suppress it. It isn’t until Cas steps forward and presses a hand to his shoulder that he realises he’s on the verge of tears. He stills at the touch and takes a few shallow breaths to try and steady himself.

He can’t let himself fall to pieces. Not even with Cas. There’s too much work still to do.

There’s always too much work to do.

Cas squeezes his shoulder until Dean looks up. The sincerity in his eyes makes a white-hot rush of shame flow through him all over again.

“Dean,” (Have Cas’s eyes always been this soft when looking at him?) “I’m…glad you’re home.”

It takes all of Dean’s power to not pull away. To not run. Year upon year of self-loathing and denial and repression of what he wants – not to mention that he still feels like a stranger in his own skin. He forces himself to release the air he’s holding, catches Cas by the shoulders and reels him in. ( _I’m not like him,_ he thinks. _I’m not._ ) Holds him – gingerly – and breathes and keeps his eyes closed so that only one traitorous tear can escape.

He doesn’t deserve this. Kindness. Forgiveness. Not after what he’s done.

But he’ll take what little comfort he can.


End file.
